


The Neil Theory: Early Edition

by ptera



Series: Prophetic Postulates [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptera/pseuds/ptera
Summary: Summary: Neil Gaiman said they switched at Crowley’s apartment.Or, should inspiration strike quickly.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prophetic Postulates [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707445
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	The Neil Theory: Early Edition

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of vignettes where each story presents opportunities to swap at different points in episode six. They’re self-contained and can be read separately, but they sort of build on each other as Crowley & Aziraphale delay longer and longer.

_When alle is fayed and all is done,  
ye must choofe your faces wisely,  
for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.  
_

Aziraphale held fast to Crowley’s hand like it was the last good knot on a long, frayed rope. Through every sway and turn of miles of dark motorways Crowley’s firmly gentle grasp kept him steady until the driver pulled up at Crowley’s building, again, as if the front door of a luxury apartment complex was a regular London bus stop. 

“Come on angel,” Crowley nudged. 

Aziraphale reluctantly let go, but Crowley made up for it by placing his hand at the small of Aziraphale’s back and keeping it there as he followed Aziraphale off the bus.

Crowley waved to the doorman, who was completely unperturbed by the sight of the bedraggled pair emerging from an _Oxford_ bus in _London_. They continued into an extravagant elevator with no buttons, only keycard access to multiple floors of exclusive luxury suites. Crowley shrugged and slouched against the back wall of the elevator once the doors closed. Aziraphale looked to take Crowley’s hand again, but each was occupied - one in the pocket of his jeans, the other hooked around his chest and under his jacket. So out of reach, Aziraphale could only clutch his own hands to his stomach, the very picture of patience for the slow elevator ride and long walk through the small receiving parlor.

Crowley led them to the apartment proper, the locked door opening without a key because Crowley believed it should.

“Eh, mind the mess,” Crowley said, waving carelessly at the puddle of sludge on the floor by the desk, “safe as houses here now.” Aziraphale let Crowley sweep him along, not letting shock coalesce into thought or worse, questions. “Won’t try that twice,” Crowley finished, taking him into the flat’s living area. It was not as warm and welcoming as most social spaces, but it was certainly elegant and intimidating. Modern, but grounded in classic architectural styles.

Even having never been here before, Aziraphale could see how Crowley's space reflected how many times the demon has changed. In contrast, Aziraphale felt he was like his old sofa: comfortable and hiding his worn spots. Unbeknownst to the casual patron, he’d thrown a blanket over the couch so no one would see the threadbare and torn cushions. He couldn’t bear to get rid of it - the couch was still so soft, it’s thick padding embracing the sitter and enticing them to stay just a little longer. Ah yes, threadbare but comfortable was a fair description of himself. He inspected the frayed ends of his jacket, over 180 years old, and the worn away velvet of a vest that was even older. Safe to say, he didn’t like change.

He expected change from Crowley though. What never changed was Crowley’s variety - he could always anticipate something would be different about his friend. And he found comfort in the demon’s earthy embrace of multifarity. At any given meeting over the centuries he could look forward to seeing Crowley’s new fashion, changed hairstyle, and choice of gender presentation. Crowley chose his face to match the times… and in these truly trying times, what would they need to change to get through this trial?

“What can I get you, Angel?” Crowley broke through his reverie, waving a bottle of whisky in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Aziraphale nodded towards the whisky, paying more mind to the hand holding it than the bottle’s vintage, “Tonight calls for harder stuff.”

“Excellent choice,” Crowley smirked, his glasses up over his head and eyes sparkling, and swung around the front of the sofa to set up their drinks. “Deep drinking will aid our deep thinking.” Aziraphale noted the cut crystal glasses were being filled far higher than was considered proper even by practiced alcoholics.

“Sit, sit,” Crowley waved him towards the couch, but Aziraphale waited until Crowley sat himself. Would the demon move to the lonely chair, or keep a place open beside himself like on the bus? What a silly game to play, but yet Aziraphale couldn’t stop playing moves he’d practiced for six thousand years. Crowley again waved at him to sit, this time dropping heavily onto the couch as he did so - leaving plenty of room at his side.

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley, aiming for precisely the same distance as the bus seat allowed and letting his thigh abduct to touch Crowley’s, but not leaning into him like he wanted to. Crowley quirked a brow, but handed him the tumbler without further comment. 

Aziraphale sipped his fine whisky, his mind replaying the witch’s verse yet again. “Although it was kind of Agnes to share one last prophecy with us,” he mused, his voice soft as graveside, “I would’ve appreciated more directness.”

Crowley snorted, tumbler held before him, whisky in the purgatory of his hand, “How could she be more direct? All is said and done and now we must bare our faces to the fire.”

“Only if ‘all said and done’ refers strictly to the Apocalypse,” Aziraphale countered, swirling the cool whisky around the tumbler and enjoying the long line of Crowley’s thigh against his, “And we must ‘choose’ our faces, Crowley.” He frowned, his heart sinking to a new as yet undiscovered depth of gloom, “ _We must choose_.”

“I choose you,” Crowley said, looking across the room, eyes fixed upon some unseen vision. He turned back to Aziraphale; eyes fully yellowed, hands reaching out, then halting just short of touching him. “I’ll always choose you, Angel.”

Aziraphale slowly returned his tumbler to the tray, afraid any quick movements would upend them both. He was both joyful and remorseful in that moment, feeling at once the elation of Crowley’s words and the mournful regret of not saying it first. He turned fully towards Crowley, now still as stone and braced for Aziraphale’s reply as if expecting a blow instead of words. And Aziraphale realized that retreating to tired and trite vacillations was as good as striking his dearest companion. He could not reward Crowley’s brave declaration with such deep unkindness. Crowley needed to know, Aziraphale had to say aloud, how perfectly their sentiments aligned. “I choose you as well, Crowley. I want us to be our own side, I want… I want you. I can only bear to face the future with you and in knowing that I’ll have you.”

Crowley looked at him as though he was taking in the whole world from far away, gazing back from times past and lost. There was wonder and hope, but there was pain crinkling the edges of his face. Oh, Aziraphale wished he had said it first, stated his choice first and gambled his heart. It was no risk at all - six thousand years and where else would he be? Who else would he be with? It was always Crowley, and it would always be Crowley. He wanted it to always be Crowley.

Aziraphale reached out first to Crowley’s hand, running his thumb up the back then around the palm. Trying, in his way, to return the sense of anchoring Crowley gave him on the bus. From there he reached up to cup Crowley’s face, no tears to brush away, but still Aziraphale gently stroked his thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone as if they were there anyway. Crowley leaned his face into Aziraphale’s hand, releasing eons of weight and waiting, and Aziraphale cradled him there and let him rest. He felt like Atlas, holding his whole world in his palm.

Oh, how Aziraphale dreaded the morning to come. There would be no rude notes or suspended privileges. Aziraphale had weathered many ordeals, but never had he let himself be so completely caught out in opposition to the Great Plan. No matter how he’d couched his actions in terms of the Ineffable Plan they were truly playing with the worst kind of fire now. 

Aziraphale dared to slide his hand down Crowley's arm, giving it a squeeze “I suppose Alpha Centauri is out of the question now?”

“Wouldn’t even make the moon.” Crowley looked at him now, “Ours is the only mercy, Angel. You can’t expect forgiveness from Upstairs after everything that’s happened.”

“My side isn’t inclined to be lenient, yes, but I fear far more what your side will do to you.” _They will destroy you_ , unsaid but hanging between them like a noose.

“So we'll both to be called then,” Crowley stated, voice flat.

“Would that I could go in your stead,” Aziraphale murmured, morose again. 

“Toss for it,” Crowley interrupted, the old gall coming back into his voice. 

“But we can’t trade off duties this time-” 

Crowley reached into his pocket and grabbed a coin that he wanted there.

Aziraphale heart clenched, “Crowley, no. Our sides will be summoning us both. We each have to go.”

“They never knew which of us went,” Crowley brandished the oversized counterfeit Euro at Aziraphale. “Choose heads or tails for the last report after the end of the world.”

Aziraphale’s last good braincell mustered to action, “...thereby choosing each other’s fates.”

“Angel?” Crowley asked, still ready to flip the coin.

Aziraphale giggled, giddy and anxious and more than a little drunk, “Choosing our faces wisely, Crowley.” Aziraphale took the coin, holding it on edge to show off the two sides of the same body, “Choosing what I would face for you. More importantly, facing tomorrow as you.”

Crowley laughed now, all bravado and a touch of hysteria, “And I as you. There’s your directness, Angel.” Crowley sat back and up, like a soldier taking his last dress portrait before deployment. This was their last Arrangement; no favors, just equal terms. “Let’s shake on it!”

Aziraphale didn’t miss a step, moving in concert with Crowley and extending his arm with all the same bluster of his stage performances, “Mind the Gap.”

They clasp hands as if they knew what they were doing - had done this dozens of times for a lark. The laughter belied the seriousness, the looming Damocles, and the possibility this was their last night before utter annihilation. But still they chose each other, to be there for each other, and to stand against whatever was coming for them. The essential desire to protect and shield and love let them jump a chasm that had kept them on opposite sides since before time could be recorded.

And it was over in a snap. Quick as anything they were in the same spots but on the other side of the firing lines. 

Aziraphale grinned, ever so pleased by their shared mischief. Crowley rejoined with a smile of his own, the satisfaction sitting perfectly on Aziraphale’s face. Hopefully Agnes’ oblique insight and their meager ruse would be enough - it was all they had and it would have to, somehow, be enough.

They toasted anew, leaned into each other and waited for dawn in the best company in the world.

* * *

“Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back  
Guilty of dust and sin.  
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack  
From my first entrance in,  
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,  
If I lacked any thing.  
  
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:  
Love said, You shall be he.  
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,  
I cannot look on thee.  
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,  
Who made the eyes but I?”  


\-- George Herbert, _[Love (III)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44367/love-iii)_

**Author's Note:**

> Neil Gaiman's [Tweet](https://twitter.com/neilhimself/status/1192080635109793793).  
> [Original Tumblr post/inspo](https://theoverlordmisha.tumblr.com/post/188966778973/regarding-the-crowleyaziraphale-swap).


End file.
